The Battle
by Michael Roberts and Becky Roberts 1996
Dinnertime! The war-cry booms through every room, hallway, closet, pipe, and cobwebbed corner. Small insects and other microscopic creatures fearfully scamper. Its echo pricks the battlefield instincts of the child warriors; but to the once mighty steel-hearted warriors, who years ago plundered the earth, but who now roam aimlessly as simple parents, the call twists and nearly breaks their aged nerves.
The arms buildup! At the dinner table, battlefield preparation begins. Each child warrior quickly secures its weapons of war: a fork, knife, spoon, cup, plate, and all other artillery little fingers capture. (A spoon drops; pick it up).
Hope! The parent arbitrators cry for peace; their petitions point heavenward. But who will offer the prayer? Negotiations break down; tempers flare anew; hopes sour. But somewhere, somehow, through the turmoil, a voice offers grace. Peace, lovely peace. (A spoon drops; pick it up).
A broken truce! Soon a plethora of complaints are filed with the haggard arbitrators. Voices clamber, discontent boils, and soon, hot tear stained cheeks breathe fiery contempt to the token parent arbitrators. Without notice, missiles fly; punch is spilt, its radioactive components contaminating the battlefield. More napkins are called for to dress the wounded. (A spoon drops; pick it up).
Retreat. Soon, but not too soon, all ammunition is digested, the troops tire, and the delight of destruction dissipates. Fatigued, battle-worn child warriors finally retreat. Calloused by daily carnage, the arbitrators trudge through the battlefield to tend the injured and clear the waste of war. (A spoon drops; leave it).
A new battle wages. The troops are again gathered and the child warriors are given their assignments. There is outrage, indignation and rebellion. The troops are stripped bare and thrown into the water. The child warriors are alternately submerged then emerge with shouts of protest. The removal of the debris of war is scrubbed from the raw, pink skin.
New Uniforms. Each child warrior is dressed in new skivvies and fatigues. There are supplies to be acquired and inspections to be made. The hair, the teeth, the little hands and feet all need to be examined to meet regulations. Once each child warrior has passed inspection, they are assigned to re-establish order from the chaos they created during the recent battle. This too is met with protestations of innocence and fingers pointing to those deemed guilty. Once again the arbitrator is called upon to pass judgment.
The ritual. There are violent, tear filled negotiations as to who chooses, how many and which arbitrator will participate in the ritual of The Story. The lot is cast and both arbitrators are called to duty. The troops separate according to their assigned bunks and the ritual begins.
Respite. The troops slumber. The arbitrators toss with restless dreams of another day of battle looming on the horizon. The expectation that alliances will be formed between the arbitrators and child warriors is slim. The fitful dreams continue for there is no peace when the call of dinnertime rings its troublesome sound and stirs the blood of the child warriors once again.
by Michael Roberts and Becky Roberts 1996
Dinnertime! The war-cry booms through every room, hallway, closet, pipe, and cobwebbed corner. Small insects and other microscopic creatures fearfully scamper. Its echo pricks the battlefield instincts of the child warriors; but to the once mighty steel-hearted warriors, who years ago plundered the earth, but who now roam aimlessly as simple parents, the call twists and nearly breaks their aged nerves.
The arms buildup! At the dinner table, battlefield preparation begins. Each child warrior quickly secures its weapons of war: a fork, knife, spoon, cup, plate, and all other artillery little fingers capture. (A spoon drops; pick it up).
Hope! The parent arbitrators cry for peace; their petitions point heavenward. But who will offer the prayer? Negotiations break down; tempers flare anew; hopes sour. But somewhere, somehow, through the turmoil, a voice offers grace. Peace, lovely peace. (A spoon drops; pick it up).
A broken truce! Soon a plethora of complaints are filed with the haggard arbitrators. Voices clamber, discontent boils, and soon, hot tear stained cheeks breathe fiery contempt to the token parent arbitrators. Without notice, missiles fly; punch is spilt, its radioactive components contaminating the battlefield. More napkins are called for to dress the wounded. (A spoon drops; pick it up).
Retreat. Soon, but not too soon, all ammunition is digested, the troops tire, and the delight of destruction dissipates. Fatigued, battle-worn child warriors finally retreat. Calloused by daily carnage, the arbitrators trudge through the battlefield to tend the injured and clear the waste of war. (A spoon drops; leave it).
A new battle wages. The troops are again gathered and the child warriors are given their assignments. There is outrage, indignation and rebellion. The troops are stripped bare and thrown into the water. The child warriors are alternately submerged then emerge with shouts of protest. The removal of the debris of war is scrubbed from the raw, pink skin.
New Uniforms. Each child warrior is dressed in new skivvies and fatigues. There are supplies to be acquired and inspections to be made. The hair, the teeth, the little hands and feet all need to be examined to meet regulations. Once each child warrior has passed inspection, they are assigned to re-establish order from the chaos they created during the recent battle. This too is met with protestations of innocence and fingers pointing to those deemed guilty. Once again the arbitrator is called upon to pass judgment.
The ritual. There are violent, tear filled negotiations as to who chooses, how many and which arbitrator will participate in the ritual of The Story. The lot is cast and both arbitrators are called to duty. The troops separate according to their assigned bunks and the ritual begins.
Respite. The troops slumber. The arbitrators toss with restless dreams of another day of battle looming on the horizon. The expectation that alliances will be formed between the arbitrators and child warriors is slim. The fitful dreams continue for there is no peace when the call of dinnertime rings its troublesome sound and stirs the blood of the child warriors once again.
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